


For The Eye's Bright Trouble

by perilit



Series: Brimming May [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26368831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilit/pseuds/perilit
Summary: Three days after the death of Annabelle, Dutch breaks.Hosea is there to catch him.
Relationships: Annabelle/Dutch van der Linde, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Series: Brimming May [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982324
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	For The Eye's Bright Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take From Me (What You Want, What You Need)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25374979) by [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics). 



> Warnings for mention and depiction of self-harm. The tag is there - proceed with caution.
> 
> I handwrote this on tiny sheets of paper while at work, then came home and typed it all up. I have so, so many feelings. 
> 
> Inspired by platonicharmonic's fic. Your brief mention of Dutch's behavior after Annabelle's death got my gears turning, and I hope I did it justice.
> 
> **Updated 10/25/20 to fix formatting, clarity, and grammar errors.

Three days. It had been three days since Hosea had ridden back into their camp to find Dutch on his knees, cradling a bloody, lifeless Annabelle. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Dutch so still, but he had been, eerily so; hunched over Annabelle’s body with his forehead touching her bloodied hair.

When Hosea had reached out and rested a hand on Dutch’s shoulder, he’d found himself staring down the barrel of a Cattleman. Dutch’s face had been surprisingly dry, but his face was haunted. It took a long beat of silence before the younger man’s gaze had focused enough to recognize his partner and lower the weapon.

They buried poor Miss Annabelle in the Oregon countryside, and though Dutch’s hands didn’t stop shaking through the whole ordeal, his eyes had remained dry.

Hosea, feeling the loss of his dear Bessie acutely in the wake of another death, had kept a close eye on the younger man.

Dutch smoked like a chimney for the two days after, and whenever Hosea lifted the flaps of his tent to check on the man, the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke was soupy in the air. Despite Hosea and Arthur’s pleading, Dutch refused to eat until the evening of the second day, stumbling out of his tent a few hours later to vomit what he’d managed onto the grass. He was withdrawn and silent save for the strike of matches on his boot, and the shadows under his eyes had started to carve into his skin.

Hosea should’ve known Dutch was bound to break eventually.

The third night, Arthur had mumbled something about bringing Dutch something to eat.

Hosea hadn’t thought much of it; he’d poked his head into the tent a few hours before to find Dutch slumped in his chair, head tipped back and mouth open, snoring, an unlit cigar dangling from his fingers and an empty bottle of whiskey at his feet.

Arthur returns not a few minutes later, and one glance at his boy tells Hosea something is seriously _wrong_.

Arthur is white as a sheet, his fingers nervously pulling at the buttons of his shirt.

“Arthur? What is it, son?” Hosea tries, stomach clenching.

Arthur’s hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck. “Dutch..h-he ain’t doin’ so good, Hosea. I...I poked my head in and..” the boy swallows and locks eyes with Hosea, the fear and worry in them sending a wave of nausea through the older man. “He...he’s _hurtin_ ’ himself, Hosea. Didn’t even know I was there…” Arthur breaks off and looks at the ground.

Hosea is on his feet before Arthur is through, already heading towards the tent. “I’ll go check on him, son, stay here”, he promises, trying not to sound as panicked as he feels.

Dutch is hunched over on his cot, his clothes strewn across the floor, the fabric of his union suit rucked up around his thigh. His hair, free of its usual pomade, is lank, hanging around his face in a curtain, and from this angle, Hosea can’t see his expression. His hand is gripping his straight razor. Hosea’s breath catches in his throat at the neat rows of crimson on the man’s thigh, blood weeping down his skin to pool on the blankets.

“Dutch...” Hosea says, quietly, voice coming out more unsteady than he’d intended, and despite Hosea’s efforts, Dutch flinches, the blade glancing across his skin with the movement.

The man finally turns his face and Hosea's heart breaks a little. His eyes are sunken and glassy, and he looks so, _so_ lost. "H-Hosea, I…" Dutch's voice wobbles and creaks, and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing.

His mouth opens and then closes noiselessly.

Hosea, in one smooth motion, is beside him on the cot, plucking the razor from Dutch's shaking hands with a soft, "Gimme this, now.” Hosea folds the blade back against the handle, and he reaches to clasp Dutch’s shoulder, murmuring, “I’ll be right back, old friend. Get you cleaned up.”

Hosea ducks past the flap again, and at once, Arthur is there, looking uneasy. Hosea is quick to grab his shoulder and pull the boy in. “It’s okay, son.” he says softly. Hosea feels him exhale roughly into his shirt, shaking. “I’ve got him, now. Dutch'll be okay, I promise."

Arthur nods into his shoulder, his whisper reaching Hosea's ears. "'kay."

Hosea squeezes him again before letting the boy go. "I need some help, though. Can you get a bucket and some water?”

His boy nods again and heads off.

Hosea grabs what he needs from their supplies, and turning, finds Arthur with the bucket. “Thank you, my boy,” he murmurs, and Arthur ducks his head and heads off towards his own tent.

Hosea, letting out a breath through his nose, pushes open Dutch’s tent again.

The man is still how he left him, head bowed, hands clasped loosely in his lap. There is a dark patch under him on the blankets, the wounds on his leg still dripping down the skin. Hosea wordlessly pulls a chair up to the bed, ignoring the way his stomach churns with anxiety.

Dutch is quiet, only inhaling through his nose at the bite of the alcohol when Hosea pours it on the skin. As Hosea secures the last of the bandages, he tugs down the fabric of Dutch’s union suit to cover his work, and then sets down the roll.

Dutch still hasn’t moved.

Hosea reaches for his hands, peering into his face. “Talk to me, _matok_ ,” Hosea murmurs.

Dutch swallows, throat working. “I…” His breath hitches. “I should've _known_ , I should’ve done _more...._ ” One of his hands comes up to press at his eyes. “She’s _dead_ because of me. Because I was too late. I didn't see in time.” he whispers.

Hosea moves to sit beside him. “This is on Colm, Dutch. You couldn’t have known. None of us did.” he says, firm.

Dutch inhales, the sound ragged. A tear slides down his nose, dripping onto his thigh. "I _miss_ her, Hosea."

Hosea's own chest twinges at the pain in Dutch's voice, Bessie's loss still too raw. "I know, _ahuvi_. I'm so sorry."

"She..." Dutch is visibly shaking now. Hosea feels for his hand, lacing their fingers. "She...she was so _good_ , Hosea, why-” A sob bursts from Dutch’s chest, the man’s body bending in half with the force.

“Oh, Dutch,” Hosea sighs. He grasps the man’s shoulder, gently pulling them both down onto the cot.

Dutch goes easily, slack with grief. He buries his face in Hosea’s neck, choppy breaths puffing against Hosea's skin.

Dutch trembles all over, sobs coming faster as the dam of his grief finally breaks. Hosea’s own eyes burn as he listens to the younger man come undone, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to the curls under his chin.

Time escapes them. Eventually, Dutch’s cries fade into shuddering breaths, and then even out into the occasional hitch. Hosea rubs a hand over the man’s back in long strokes. Neither of them speaks, and the silence stretches over them in a thick blanket.

There are no words he can say to make this better, Hosea knows. 

Dutch has gone limp next to him and Hosea is beginning to doze himself when the tent flap rustles. He looks up to find Arthur poking his head in.

Arthur’s eyes are red, but the color has mostly returned to his cheeks. Hosea gives him a questioning glance, but Arthur only shakes his head. _Just checking_.

Hosea watches him scan the room: the pink-tinted water in the bucket, the empty whiskey bottles littering the floor, the tear-stains on both of their faces. Arthur’s gaze lingers on Dutch. The man’s face is calm for the first time in days, even with his skin flushed and splotchy.

“He’ll be okay, son,” Hosea murmurs quietly, disrupting Arthur’s worries before they can get too far into the boy’s head. “He just needs...time. We’ll get ol’ Dutch through this. You and me.” Hosea adds, watching as fondness softens Arthur’s features.

“Okay, ‘sea,” Arthur mumbles. He casts one more long glance at Dutch before ducking back out of the tent.

Hosea lets his head fall back onto the cot. His own loss is aching painfully in his chest, and the temptation to crawl back into a bottle is bitter on his tongue. But he can’t, not when Dutch is asleep for the first time in days, not when Hosea needs to keep him from carving out his sorrows in his skin. He has to be stronger, for both of their sakes. For Arthur’s sake. 

_Bessie, look after Annabelle_ , is the last thing Hosea thinks as he closes his own eyes. _For the both of us._

* * *

_O you and me at last, and us two only._


End file.
